


Misunderstanding

by Arithanas



Series: The Count and his Valet [12]
Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: Interrupted Intimacy, M/M, Master/Servant, Parent-Child Relationship, Parenthood, Single Parents, baby talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-07
Updated: 2011-08-07
Packaged: 2018-03-24 21:46:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3785410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY: 1636, Blois. As the child begins to speak, Athos found himself trying to balance his adult ways and his parental responsibilities.<br/>DISCLAIMER: Dumas & Maquet works are public domain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Misunderstanding

_Little children, little sorrows;_  
big children, great sorrows.  
~ Danish Proverb

 

February was still a cold month in Blois but, for the first time in years, Olivier found himself enjoying the pleasure in the arms of his valet. The cold was not a concern anymore.

It was almost two years since he stopped his disproportionate consumption of wine and, besides the obvious economic benefit, his health had been improved, his ailments had decreased, and the pain in his side was much less frequent. The Count had been positively surprised when desire returned with a boost he had not felt in a decade. It was really convenient that Grimaud was looking forward to repeat the experiences of Rue Férou. In the middle of the winter cold, he did not feel like going to the brothel in Blois, even if that place had been highly praised by a friendly distant relative; his valet’s service would always be better, since his Breton was well trained, eager and knew what his master found pleasant.

Grimaud and he were trying to catch his breath when Oliver realized that it was better for his valet to stay under the duvet and keep him a warm company for the time left before dawn. Embrace another body was comfortable and warmth was welcome, especially as the raindrops began to fall. The rain was welcome for the fields and they both smiled, as any man who grew up in the country, at such a heavenly gift. Nothing could prevent the servant to sleep, that was certain and well tested; as soon as Grimaud found a comfortable position on the back of his master, his body began to relax, lulled by the sound of rain and distant thunderclaps. Sleep was a harder task for Olivier, even after even after he obtained satisfaction; for a while, he was trying to remember his prayers - that was never easy - and not thinking about the next day’s work. His bed partner nuzzled his neck and that brought a smile to his lips.

That was a good sign.

Since that night in which his valet got into his bed almost uninvited, Olivier had noticed that his loyal Grimaud had abandoned his habit of touching and rubbing his body in his old familiar way. The fact that he is now nestled against him meant that his valet was satisfied and comfortable. Few things made the Count felt more satisfied with himself that pleasing his bedfellows, but given his position, it was difficult to know for sure; at least not without asking, and that ruined the value he placed in his own skills. He positively hated to ask on what should be obvious. His eyes were closing and, if not for the pillows, he would have started to nod. For a moment, it seemed that the door opened and that he did regain an awareness of his surroundings. A quick look over the blankets reassured him about the safety of his room, and with a grunt, he returned to snuggle with Grimaud. Suddenly, blankets were pulled to the side of the bed and it made him sit down right away, startled.

“ _Pa_...” the small and sobbing voice of a child called from the darkness of the room. It was Raoul’s.

He groaned. What was his son doing in the middle of the night? And inside his bedchamber, to cap it all. That boy should be asleep in his own bed. It was too cold for wander... This line of thought was cut short when Grimaud, still asleep, pulled the blankets over his head. Fine business. Olivier, playing for time, rubbed his face like he was trying to wake up, but all the time he was seeking a way out of the mess in which he was involved. Wedged between his son and his lover, enviable situation!

“ _Pa_...” Raoul repeated, his hands clamped on the edge of the mattress and tried to get his body to the high bed, arduous task for a toddler.

“What do you want at this hours, Raoul?” he asked, almost mechanically threw his robe up to cover him, it was really cold. “You should be in your bed.”

Raoul, the moment he saw the opportunity, grabbed the sleeve with all his might, his big wet eyes fixed in the adult. Olivier tried to be patient and practical whenever it was possible, his brain reminded him that he was dealing with a creature a few years and no experience; but bad habits die hard, and a part of him, despised such displays of childish weakness. Almost immediately, he felt a chill that had nothing to do with the low temperature. He was suddenly aware that his father would have surely beaten him if he, in his time, had mounted such a stunt. And a decision was taken, he did not even look over his shoulder to check Grimaud, he just used his arms to lift the boy from the icy floorboard.

“What is it?” he demanded, rubbing the child's feet, frozen even under the fabric.

“A hoss...” Raoul sobbed and tried to cling to his godfather's chest. “A hoss me!”

Olivier could not help feeling that his mouth opened and twisted slightly to the left. His eyebrows rose in an arc which meant his complete disbelief. Raoul had tried to talk before, single words like 'bottle', 'sleep' and 'me', but apparently he intended to convey a more complex idea. His son was better than him to read faces; the almost complete darkness of the room did not prevent him to guess that his words were not understood. The state of excitement in which the boy was, made him return to his old method of talking with signs, but it was too dark to understand the movement of his plump hands.

"I'll take you to your room, it's too cold here," Olivier tried to explain, thinking that he was likely to return to sleep and still find a warm bed.

“No!” the boy protested, clinging to the father’s shirt. His feet were using the bones of his father's waist for support and his little toes were digging in the belt of Apollo. “A hoss! A hoss!”

"You're hurting me," said the Count sitting the child on his thigh with a sudden movement. “Calm down, please!”

Raoul began to sob and smashed his face into Olivier’s belly who, for a second, was flabbergasted and, if he did not go on, was for some slender fingers caressed the small of his back to get his attention. Great! He used his free hand to give a couple of taps on the bed to signal to Grimaud to be discreet and his other hand to hold Raoul. What to do? Obviously, the boy was terrified, but Olivier did not know why, quite strongly he had refused to return to his room and seemed that no human power could make him release his father’s shirt. Moreover, Grimaud could not leave his place between his master’s body and the wall without Raoul realized his presence. To hell with everything!

“All right, Raoul”, Olivier agreed with a tired sigh, he found his body tired and his patience sparse to keep the situation any longer. “Tonight you’ll sleep here.”

“No hoss?” the child asked his godfather while he lie down in bed.

"I don’t think so," he murmured, taking one of pillows to support his head. He was still wondering what the hell Raoul meant by that word. He tapped his chest. “Come here and sleep, Raoul.”

Raoul crawled until he reached the chest of his father, he used Olivier’s right arm as a pillow and placed his own left thumb in his mouth. Olivier pulled the blankets and hugged the boy, placing his hand on the small rear that still wore diapers. Grimaud, trying not to make noise, ran his hand over his master's waist and his fingers stroked the iliac furrow under the thin linen shirt. Olivier had no words to thank him for soothing that sore spot, but he knew they were not necessary. Soon, he fell asleep listening to the breathing of his valet, the rhythmic sound of Raoul sucking his thumb, and the raindrops against the slate roof.

***

Grimaud woke him up really early while trying to get out of the bed without disturbing anyone. Olivier looked at him with haggard eyes of someone who has little slept. His valet smiled trying to apologize, which would not have helped much if Raoul had awakened, but that baby was sleeping as all the innocent souls do: soundly. Olivier, who really was not an envious soul, coveted his son’s skill to blackout so completely that nothing could wake him up if it was not his time. As every time that thought came to his mind, his gesture soured: he knew that the mother of that child could sleep, no matter the circumstances. Grimaud was busy getting dressed, but noticed that something had changed. He glanced over his shoulder at his master's face and what he saw seriously worried him. Fortunately, years of service were always useful for something.

“Good baby,” the Breton growled as he threw the jerkin over his shoulders. “Shame he’s a spoiled brat... like his father.”

“When that will be of your concern, I'll tell you,” the master of the house answered, putting his weight on the pillows. He had not been raised to let the servants forget their place, and that thought occupied his whole mind.

“Quite right”, was the quick response followed by a brief bow. “Breakfast is of my concern, master.”

The rest of the morning was uneventful, except that Raoul woke up crying because his diaper was wet. Olivier wanted all his problems were so easily solved. As it was raining furiously outside, servants and masters remained indoors. By midday, Olivier lounged in his most comfortable armchair with one of his favorite books to read by firelight. Raoul brought his lot of toys, one piece at the time, and settled down to play next to his father's chair, making small noises as if telling himself a story while he was manipulating the objects. Any other day, his father would have smiled and continued his reading, but such progress in his child’s abilities to communicate reminded him the scene of the last night.

 _Hoss_. What a strange word. The boy said ‘hoss’. Raoul was too young; he was not fit to use a hose, so he was not talking about clothes. Could it be that his son asked him to be his host? No, Raoul was being raised almost in seclusion and the concept of 'host' was far too complicated for a toddler. Was he trying to say he was 'hot'? The night was cold, really cold, that assumption made no sense... Inadvertently, the book slipped from his hands and his head fell on his shoulder.

He should not have slept too long, when he dozed in his armchair, bad dreams came much faster than in his bed, though it was true that he fell asleep quicker. He woke up shaking his head, almost knocking himself against the furniture. In his mind was a dim, blurred, image of blond hair and flames that made no sense but, anyway, he found it disturbing. In his confusion, Olivier try to hold the side table, but he only managed to overturn it. The sound anchored him to reality and he could see that Grimaud made an appearance, probably attracted by the commotion. Raoul, when he saw the servant, came to the door briskly, with his quick baby steps.

“Mau,” the baby called out the old servant, the name always sounded like mewing on the lips of Raoul. “ _Pa_ hoss” He informed the servant with a nod and pointing to his godfather with a finger. Then his brow furrowed as if he was looking to clarify the situation. Then he smiled, made a fist and, with a tone of certitude, said: “Thai hoss!”

That done, Raoul mimicked the bow everyone did to the Count and left the room leaving behind two adults trying to decipher what he was trying to explain.

***

That afternoon, shortly after the collation, Grimaud, always by signs, asked the master to accompany him to the old stable. Olivier knew of what he wanted to talk about; that decrepit structure needed to be demolished and rebuilt. The rains should have taken their toll on that roof and they needed to take care of it soon or the horses would catch ill of hooves. Build a new stable was an expense of three or four hundred pistoles and he had no idea where he might find them. At the time he rose from his chair, Raoul took to hold onto his father’s leg, it was his way of requesting the adult to take him. Without wishing to argue, and with his head in other matters, Olivier took the child and sat him on his arm, the gesture was already natural.

The old stable was a few yards from the mansion, so it does not even crossed his mind throw a cloak to protect them from rain. Once inside, Olivier sat the child on a barrel, to prevent him from wandering through mud, wet straw and horse manure. While adults inspected the damage, Raoul was busy stroking the head of the old mare of the well, this poor beast was almost blind but she was docile, the animal could eat the whole Raoul in one bite, such was the size difference; but the child was safe. Master and servant were too busy arguing over repairs, always quietly. He came to the conclusion that as the rains stop it would be necessary to replace the roof, at least. Olivier picked up the child who was quick to hang over his shoulder and to wave his hand in a gesture of farewell.

“Bye-bye hoss,” Raoul said and that made his father to a halt.

“Did you mean ‘horse’, Raoul?” Olivier asked, stroking the child's back, to ensure that he did not fall.

“No! I say _hoss_!”

Olivier always wondered where Raoul had acquired that imperative tone at expressed, at the same time, that you were wrong and that there was something hopeless in you. While he was trying to make some sense of that term, the baby squirmed in his arms and hung on his other shoulder. That forced him to turn around to look at the boxes of the horses, goats and cows.

“Da’s ho _r_!” Raoul said pointing to the chestnut stud that his father used to mount.

“All right, that is a horse,” he admitted, understanding that the word did not mean what he thought first. “Show me where is a hoss.”

Without a word Raoul pointed out the old mare. His face proclaimed that he was annoyed with the lack of understanding of the responsible adult that had fallen to his lot.

“Did ‘hoss’ means ‘mare’?”

“Yes!” screamed the little boy, in his eyes there were tears of frustration “Hoss!”

“Last night you had a ’mare?”

“Yes! A hoss me!”

Or Raoul was a genius or every child has an incredibly complicated train of logic, Olivier did not know which the right one was. But now it was crystal clear: Raoul had a nightmare and that was the reason behind his venturing in his father’s room; Olivier had a nightmare, but it was during daytime: Day-mare, not nightmare. When this child would cease to play with words?

***

Olivier knew the solution was a stroke of genius. Surely, Raoul could sleep all night with a bell to call his godfather in case he had another nightmare, and no one would ruin his nightly entertainment. When he explained it to Grimaud, his servant just smiled. He understood the idea or he was skeptical about the results, it did not matter much.

For the time being, the only thought his brain was to achieve his satisfaction and to make the incredulous Breton got his; the only reality in the world was that slim and warm body at his hand and the soft bed they shared. If he had known that to give up the bottle would bring these delightful episodes, perhaps he had decided to get sober before. Grimaud, enthusiastic as ever, happily contributed with his caresses and kisses, taking some concessions that ordinarily he would not take such as passing his fingers into his master’s mane; in the candlelight his valet’s face was somewhat attractive. Of course, he would never be a Greek statue, but he would neither be a hellish vision. God could not have made them more contrasting, but somehow they complemented and, at times like these, they mutually perfect one another. Olivier knew it was an out of the ordinary incidence: both were forty-something and they gave themselves to pleasure with a teenage joy.

“Ready?,” Olivier wanted to know, rubbing his hands with ointment over the head of his partner, burning with desire to seize Grimaud completely.

Grimaud opened his mouth. It was obvious that he was willing to continue the game, that he felt the same heat. The sound of the bell came to the room. Olivier hung his head, defeated, and he realized that there are three ways to get something done: do it yourself, employ someone, or forbid your child to do it.

“Your son...” was his reply. The expression on his face indicated that the atmosphere had been ruined.

“Do you know? What you need is a kid, Jean-Benoît,” Olivier said putting on the shirt and his dressing gown. “He would make you see life differently.”

In reply, Grimaud snuggled in bed, trying to keep himself warm. He was jealous, that was obvious, and before meeting him, Oliver had never imagined that a man could feel that greedy passion over another man. It was strangely touching see him in that state and he could not avoid making Grimaud a tenderness to ease his torment. He bent over the lying form and kissed him on the temple while the bell rang again.

“I’ll be back right away,” he promised, getting out of bed. “I'm just going to scare off a _hoss_ ”

Grimaud’s throaty laughter followed him to the door.


End file.
